


Caliente

by AirgiodSLV



Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-09-10
Updated: 2003-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-20 09:11:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16134161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AirgiodSLV/pseuds/AirgiodSLV
Summary: “Hot sauce,” Elijah announces, studying the bottles critically. His contacts were bothering him earlier, so now he’s safely behind glasses. It consequently lends everything that he says or does a little more intellectual weight. Orlando does not even think to question his analysis of the bottles.





	Caliente

**Author's Note:**

> For the [](https://contrelamontre.livejournal.com/profile)[contrelamontre](https://contrelamontre.livejournal.com/) 'food' challenge. Hot sauce.

The restaurant is packed, with the regular weekend crowd already jammed into the lobby, and just upscale enough that the maitre d’ looks slightly peeved at the idea of a double-handful of hyperactive twenty-somethings cavorting about on his shift.

“Look, check out these bottles!” Dominic calls, and Orlando leaves off studying the framed newspaper clippings on the wall to investigate.

“Hot sauce,” Elijah announces, studying the bottles critically. His contacts were bothering him earlier, so now he’s safely behind glasses. It consequently lends everything that he says or does a little more intellectual weight. Orlando does not even think to question his analysis of the bottles.

“What do they say?” Dominic asks, and Orlando calls on the half-dozen broken phrases of Spanish he knows in an attempt to translate.

“They’re brand names, Dom,” Elijah points out distractedly, peering at one of the larger specimens. “These are so _old_.”

“I wonder if we can get them to put this stuff on our meals,” Orlando jokes, realizing that he has shifted to within inches of Elijah and backing off slightly.

“Mucho hot!” Dominic contributes, grinning.

“Muy caliente,” Elijah corrects, and he’s still got that far-off quality to his voice that makes Orlando want to snap his fingers and say, ‘I’m right here. Where are you?’

“Whatever.” Orlando thinks that he can identify the word ‘caliente’ on one of the bottles; reaches to rotate the bottle so that he can check.

The pop is so loud that it makes him jump, like a gunshot has gone off next to his ear, and then he’s blinking in dismay at the shattered remains of an antique bottle.

“Holy shit! That thing just exploded!” Dominic crows, and Orlando thinks that he sounds a bit too gleeful at this rather unexpected turn of events.

“Are you all right, sir?” The manager has made it over in record time, hovering respectfully at Orlando’s elbow. “My apologies, sir. If you send us the dry-cleaning bill, we will refund the cost. And drinks for your table are complimentary, of course.”

Orlando is still blinking, adjusting to the pungent vinegar scent that surrounds him and the sticky-damp sensation of liquid soaking through his clothes. He thinks that if anything, he should be the one to apologize for this, not the manager. He’s the one that broke their bottle, although _how_ he’s not quite sure. He opens his mouth to apologize, but Elijah insinuates himself smoothly.

“Thank you,” he tells the manager. “Where is your restroom?”

The manager points, and Elijah gingerly pulls Orlando away from the shattered glass by an unblemished section of his shirt, near his elbow. “Go clean up,” he states, and once again Orlando reacts to the intellectual look and commanding tone without thinking twice. “You shouldn’t let that stuff come into contact with your skin for too long.”

Orlando obediently heads to the restroom, feeling highly self-conscious about having caused such a public disaster, and glad to get away from the curious eyes of the restaurant patrons.

The restroom is decorated in the same style as the dining room and lobby; pseudo-Mexican of a type that most tourists would dismiss as non-authentic. Looking at himself in the mirror makes him wince; there is sauce across the entire front of his shirt, staining blue-white-yellow striped fabric an ugly, clashing orange. He hates that his shirt has undoubtedly been ruined. He hates more that he wore it tonight for no other reason than because he knew a certain person would be here; because that person once mentioned it reminded him of a pencil, and that meant that at least he had noticed.

The hot sauce stain seems to mock his shallowness.

He gets as much of the sauce off as he can, wrinkling his nose at the smell that has completely saturated his clothing, and soaks himself fairly thoroughly in the process. At least he’s cleaner now, though.

He uses the urinal while he’s there, because for some reason being in a restroom always makes him want to go. He supposes it’s a trained reflex, some Pavlovian twist of human nature.

By the time he locates their table, the others have ordered, and Dominic informs him cheerfully that they have chosen something special for him. Orlando wonders how hot the sauce is going to be when it arrives, and whether his eyes will continue watering the way they are right now.

“Don’t worry about it,” Elijah murmurs as Orlando takes the last empty seat. “It probably happens all the time, or the manager wouldn’t have been so calm.”

Orlando smiles at him a little unsurely, but Elijah is already engrossed in one of the ‘historic’ pamphlets that he picked up in the lobby earlier. A moment later, he glances over and sees Elijah half-smiling at him. “You know,” Elijah says quietly, leaning in so that the others don’t hear, “I think the stain actually improves it.”

Orlando straightens, frozen between taking offense and thrilling at the intimacy in Elijah’s voice when he says those words. He can never tell whether Elijah is kidding or not. It’s always a ping-pong battle in his head over how to respond, which way to jump, the possible correct interpretation. It’s a minor emotional roller coaster at the best of times, deciding whether to take Elijah’s teasing at face value or to err on the side of caution.

“Thank you,” he says finally, and Elijah doesn’t give anything else away, just smiles to himself and goes back to his pamphlet.

A few minutes later, Orlando realizes that something is wrong.

He’s…itching. And not in a good way. More like there are tiny shoots of flame dancing up and down between his legs, and his eyes resume watering. He shifts slightly, in case he’s accidentally cutting off blood flow or something, but with the movement the fire increases sharply, and he swears softly under his breath.

“What’s wrong?” Elijah asks, leaning in again, and this time Orlando shifts away, fingers twitching for something to grip and ending up with his napkin.

“Nothing,” he says quickly.

Elijah’s eyes behind their glasses are peeling him apart layer by layer, and he frowns intently. The he giggles, and Orlando draws himself up, affronted and uncomfortable. “You used the toilet, didn’t you?” he whispers, and Orlando nods hesitantly. “I told you not to get it on your skin.”

Orlando blinks. Swears again. “I washed my hands first,” he protests, fighting the urge to squirm as heat and prickling increase between his legs.

“Yeah, but that stuff is potent. You probably didn’t get it all.” He giggles again; bites his lip and stays quiet until Dominic looks away. “Bet it itches.”

“’Lij,” Orlando complains, and squirms a little.

“Sorry. You have to admit it’s funny, though.” He leans back a little in his chair, mischief dancing in his eyes. “You know what might work?” he muses thoughtfully, tapping a finger against his teeth. Then he leans in close, even closer than before, and his eyes twinkle as he whispers. “Get someone to lick it off for you.”

Orlando’s fingers tighten convulsively on the napkin; he feels the paper rip. Elijah’s words cause his body to tighten in a way that is currently excruciatingly painful. “Are you offering?” he asks, feigning nonchalance, because with Elijah he can never tell, can never…

Elijah shrugs. He goes back to his pamphlet, and Orlando struggles to breathe. Tears are still stinging his eyes; he blinks as rapidly as he can and hopes that no one notices. He reaches a little desperately for his water glass and nearly knocks over Elijah’s.

“Relax,” Elijah’s voice murmurs in his ear. “Just breathe.”

“Easy for you to say,” Orlando grumbles, but he tries; sits back and smiles vaguely and tries to ignore the agony in his nether regions.

A moment later, Elijah gets up, wipes his mouth delicately with his napkin, and leaves in the direction of the restroom.

Orlando starts sweating.

Because he never knows with Elijah, and this could turn out to be a huge misunderstanding, a jest, and Elijah would be shocked if he knew that Orlando was willing to take him up on it…

But then again, this is the best opportunity he’s likely to get.

Discreetly, he drops his napkin onto the table, smiles reassuringly at Dominic, and gets up.

He decides that it’s worth the risk.


End file.
